Show Tunes and Asphalt
by Nymm-Kirimoto
Summary: In which Masky and Hoody drive home from a night out. A crack fic written in purple prose to celebrate my BROTP, and to cheer myself, and others, up from Entry 76. Not romantic. Rated T for drunk driving.


"Masky, please let me drive."

"No."

Hoody sighed, and looked out the window, resting his head on his gloved palm and watching the highway's street lights flick by, rain splattering the road, the car, everything, hoping it would ease the nervousness crawling through his stomach. It didn't. In fact the paranoia brought on by the unnaturally dark woods only made him more sure of how stupid it was to have his Masked friend drive. The anxiousness writhing in his stomach actually managed to prevent him from falling asleep on the plush, clean seats of the car, (definitely a step up from what he and his companion had come to call the "Hoody Hut") something he hadn't thought possible.

Despite the red mesh covering his eyes, Hoody could see perfectly well that Masky was obviously a bit tipsy. Not that he himself wasn't a tad buzzed, but he was pretty sure he was a whole lot less drunk from the cheap beer they had drunk to wash down the cheap meal they had payed for with Tim's money at the Diner they had driven to with Tim's car. Unfortunately he hadn't realized how shitty Tim's body's alcohol tolerance was. A whole hour ago Masky had been warbling out ancient show tunes at full volume and giving an off key rendition of the "Full House" theme while Hoody looked over their collective shoulders for anyone that might recognized the former college student, despite the fact that they were several towns away from Rosswood. After just one beer. Hoody wasn't sure how his stocky friend had achieved this, but at this point, his best (and only) friend's ability to become drunk off his ass quicker than he could wasn't really deserving of much thought. _From now on, I'm going to be the designated driver.  
_

"You're drunk. Just pull over before you hit something."

"I'm not you, drunk are. 'Sides, my meatbag's car," Masky said loudly, voice quaking as Hoody face-palmed.

Hoody sighed, and went back to watching the car's somewhat wavy trail, vaguely registering that Masky had begun singing "Aaaaaaand I will alwaaaays love yoooou~", the off key singing echoing through the white mask. _You know there's no one on the road, I could probably hit the breaks real quick and shove him out of the driver's seat..._

This was he had to do. His calling that wasn't stalking or making creepy videos in the woods. Some small part of him realized that it was probably the alcohol talking, but it was quickly silenced as Hoody reached a leg over to Masky's side of the radio and slammed on the breaks. Masky promptly was shoved into the steering wheel, then even more promptly shove on to the pavement, groaning as he got up and dusted off his now wet jeans as he stumbled around to the shotgun side of the silver car. As he got in, he glared at Hoody from behind his white second skin.

"I hate you."

"No you don't," Hoody said, grinning at his triumph behind his frowning balaclava as the car door slammed shut.

Masky made a noise of discontent and slouched in the car seat as the engine resurrected its self and began trundling along the interstate once more. Folding his arms, he flopped his dark haired head down and swore vehemently when the cool plastic of the mask was pushed up and off his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Hoody saw a flash of dark eyes, thick eyebrows and familiar sideburns. He wasn't sure why his companion constantly wore the cheap, effeminate(?) mask with it's sharpie kohl and ink lipstick. If he were to be perfectly honest with himself, it kinda made him look like a long lost member of KISS... hmm, maybe there was a connection...

That was probably the reason he himself wore his baggy balaclava; To hide the smirk every time he saw a member of a famous hard rock band tackling someone, or kidnapping someone, or eating out at Arby's in the darkest, most secluded booth, or freaking out and running form the mysterious lights hanging over the Arby's... ect. Come to think of it, his face was actually going to get stuck like that from all that smirking.

Or he could wear the black fabric because of the cops and their many violations of the law.

That was probably it.

Either way, there was what, half an hour left until they reached Rosswood, and Hoody was silently wondering if he could get away with sleeping in the car over night. With heating. And clean seats. It was tempting. Very much so. Besides, Masky's escapades in being drunk as a skunk would probably keep Tim out for an extra hour,or at least keep Tim hung over enough he wouldn't chase him to fast, giving him far more time than what Hoody needed to vanish into the dangerous forest with a month's supply of food, detergent, T.V.s salvaged from the dump, not to mention a few extra hoodies. All bought with Tim's money, of course. After saving he and Jay's asses too many times to count, he felt that they could at least thank him by leaving their wallets and pills in easy to access places.

Noticing the distinct absence of show tunes, Hoody looked away from the empty road over to his friend, who had given up trying to wear the mask AND comfortably sleep. Masky's unkempt, over long, black hair flopped over his arm, forehead barely visible, shoulders rising and falling with each snore. The white mask's visage stared up blankly from the dashboard, like a discarded doll, and the hooded man felt himself groping in the back seat for an extra hoodie and draping over his comrade's hunched shoulders. Carefully he turned on the radio, not too loud, cranked up the heat, and settled in for a long, some what paranoid drive back to the closest thing they knew to home.


End file.
